


Mile High Noon

by motorghost



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bounty Hunters, Dirty Talk, Don't Try This At Home, Drinking, Flirting, M/M, Mile High Club, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reverse Cowgirl Rodeo King Jesse McCree, Semi-Public Sex, Sneaking Around, on the road
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 08:31:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20579552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motorghost/pseuds/motorghost
Summary: Two late-thirties bounty hunters break some minor sky-laws.





	Mile High Noon

**Author's Note:**

> *This Fic Is NOT TSA Approved*
> 
> This is a very unserious PWP that I mostly wrote on a plane. (Also, the title is not my fault. It was thought up by @itssinenoon on Twitter. Any praise and/or blame should be directed their way.)
> 
> DISCLAIMER:
> 
> You have my permission to podfic, translate or remix my work, make fan-art—anything that qualifies as transformative work. All I ask is that you share it with me so I can enjoy it too!
> 
> What you do NOT have my permission to do is wholesale copy and repost my work(s) to a different platform, such as a third-party app that profits from free fan labor. If you are reading this on an app like that, I assure you that Ao3's on mobile is robust, has a dark mode skin, and isn't trying to scam you by offering premium services that change nothing.
> 
> (If you are an author, feel free to copypasta this disclaimer onto your own works. If fan fiction isn't kept totally free, it will eventually cease to exist.)

It’s been years since Jesse took a commercial plane and nothing about the experience evokes sweet nostalgia. Airlines haven’t done too well since the Crisis: outdated plastic, peeling emergency stickers, weak lights guiding weary travelers to cramped seats. Jesse’s long legs knocking against the seat back of the chair before him while little huffs from the baby behind him signal the post-nap fussiness that usually precedes a bout of wailing. He can’t even light up to chase the tension away. Worst of all: no drinking in coach.

Jesse’s never been one to leave solid ground without very good reason. Even Blackwatch airdrops were more pleasant than this—at least then there was space to stretch out and the adrenaline of impending violence to keep his mind clear. But it’s all still better than evading the law, which he hasn’t had to do since he teamed up with another bounty hunter and got his shit together vis-a-vis working aliases. His new partner is a bonafide expert in navigating the kind of backchannel bureaucracies necessary to obtain the kind of super-false identifications you need to get past post-Crisis security. Jesse is all too grateful to leave behind the days of shotgunning bullet trains and stowing away on freighters.

And it’s far, far better for the company of said partner, who should be walking up the aisle any second now.

When that tell-tale frown finally emerges from the shuffling line of passengers, Jesse sits up a little higher in his seat. Hanzo had to stay behind—something wrong with his ticket, supposedly—but from the look on his face, it appears to have worked out. When Hanzo meets Jesse’s eyes, he has a mischievous smirk, and some vibrant spark shoots up to ping-pong between Jesse's stomach and heart.

They’ve only been officially more-than-friends for a few weeks now and that thrill is still very fresh. It took six months of hit-and-miss flirting, bridging multiple cultural differences, and navigating a minefield of interpersonal issues for their status to change from Cohorts to Boyfriends, though even that term feels inaccurate somehow. Doesn't matter—whatever they are is everything Jesse likes.

“Get up.”

Jesse blinks. “What now?”

“I have changed our seats.” Hanzo casually flicks his head towards the front of the plane, still toying with that smirk. “First class.”

“Naw.”

_ “’Yaw.’” _

Jesse shakes his head with a broad smile, chuckling. Then he sets his hat on his head and rises, muttering good-naturedly, “Spoiled prince…” as he stands up and shakes out his knees.

Hanzo cuffs him on the arm. Then he reaches up to take down Jesse’s carry-on from the overhead.

The gunslinger gets a hand on it, “Let me get that," but Hanzo shakes his head and sweeps on ahead. Jesse chuckles, licks his teeth; he's used to Hanzo's almost competitive politeness. One day he'll get to the gun first. 

But that’s the nice thing about Hanzo: Jesse doesn’t have to keep a record of deeds or debts owed. He got into this thing expecting nothing—not when they’re both pushing forty, with more bad days behind them than can be added up, with bad habits and insecurities and a deep penchant for never talking shit out. The first few days were like a coyote forced to hunt with a wolf. But even with all pretense of trying to be his ‘best self’ fallen like goods off the back of a stolen truck, Jesse still lucked out. Whether it’s their similarly rough upbringing, their mutual sense of anachronistic-ness, or simply the wizened acceptance that comes with middle-age and years of hard living, the cowboy is consistently astonished at how thoroughly Hanzo seems to like him for exactly who he is. If Hanzo weren’t so obviously a product of a wealthy (yet hard-working) upbringing, he’d swear they were cut from the same mold. Wild and violent young men turned wild and violent old men. Long-toothed canines walking the wild road side-by-side.

_Hell of a pair we make_. Jesse smiles and puts his hand on Hanzo’s shoulder as he walks behind him.

First class is irritatingly better. The leather seats are softer and much better maintained. Curved wings emerge from the chairs for additional privacy. Even the air smells a little fresher. And no sooner has Jesse got himself settled that a stewardess appears, compliments the hat in Jesse’s lap, and offers them champagne.

“I know this may seem excessive,” Hanzo begins slowly, knowingly, after they’ve clicked their glasses together and sampled the bubbles, “But you must be tired after Lagos. Now you may stretch out.”

“Darlin’, you treat me too good.” Jesse leans closer. “Just how’d you wrangle that? Didn’t think our budget allocated for this kinda luxury.”

“I paid the difference from my personal savings,” Hanzo mutters, face two-thirds turned his way, catching the scruff under Jesse’s chin with fond fingers.

“Well, shit, honey, you didn’t have to do that on my account.”

“I did not do it solely for you," Hanzo releases him with a shake. "Besides, I have little else to do with my old balance.”

“Oh, yeah. Probably got a fair mint stored all across the world, eh?”

“Indeed.” Hanzo arches his powerful shoulders back into the plush seat. “Most of it has been untouched for over a decade. I plan to make much better use of it in the future.”

“Well, don’t go too far outta your way for ‘lil ol’ me.” Jesse lazily reaches for Hanzo’s hair ribbon, pulls the silk to his lips, grins with his eyes on Hanzo’s eyes. “I know dragons like to hoard.”

“Dragons do like to hoard,” Hanzo mutters, half-whispering in that low, guttural way of his, “But good businessmen know that you have to spend money to make money.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jesse shifts in his seat, lowers his own voice, “And what kinda return are you hopin’a get on this particular lil’ investment?”

Hanzo smirks wider and Jesse can’t help but mirror it back. He’s rarely seen Hanzo like this—energetic, playful. Unconcerned. It’s been happening more and more lately and Jesse can’t get enough of it. They both started out so guarded, so prickly. Jesse’s walls have fallen altogether but Hanzo still seems to have a few left over.

No shame in it; makes things interesting. And Jesse always loved the chase.

“I am not sure. Sometimes an investment is given on little more than good intuition.”

“Mm-hm,” Jesse lets the ribbon slide out of his fingers and picks up Hanzo’s hand instead. “And makin’ sure I’m comfy smells like a potentially beneficial investment to your intuition, does it?”

“It does.” Hanzo leans closer now, his face now close to Jesse’s face. “I have seen how you can be when you are… comfortable.”

A shiver wrecks Jesse’s lower half. He finds himself clearing his throat and doing a quick perimeter check. This kind of open canoodling could attract attention, and there's no telling who could recognize him and mention it to an air marshal, nevermind how well-dressed he is or how neatly he’s attended to his hair. Also no telling how quickly it’ll take him to pop an inconvenient boner if Hanzo keeps up that kind of talk, with that kind of voice, with that look in those sleek black eyes. He’s flirted with Hanzo night and noon for the past few months, but he’s never heard the archer directly allude to their intimacy like _ that_, let alone in such a public space. The man is usually so proper, so contained, so concerned with his image. He still huffs like a disgruntled school boy every time Jesse tries to hold his hand, for Christ’s sake. It makes every little break in decorum feel like a hot tongue up his neck.

Jesse kisses Hanzo’s hand, then takes his hat from his lap and fans himself. “They gonna serve us more drinks or what?” 

Hanzo leans back into his own space and chuckles darkly. Forebodingly, almost. “Yes. And they have an excellent selection of Japanese whiskeys. It is high time you tried some.”

✈ ✈ ✈

Three glasses later and both men are having a hard time keeping their voices down. Once they get started, it isn’t long before they’re joking around like two old ex-gangsters do, carrying on without too much regard for discretion. Jesse thinks they’re pissing off one fellow first-class member in particular—some broad-shouldered suit with a pinched-in face—but he can’t bring himself to care. When he looks at Hanzo, eyes almost shut from the force of his laughter, it feels like he’s floating. 

And he can’t quite get that little sliver of flirtation. It reminds him of when Blackwatch would travel on leave weekends, or the few rare times he and the old gang used to ride across the country; travel can bring out new shades in people, even your closest compadres. Even though they’re only suspended about 30,000 feet above the ground, the surprising upgrade and their luxurious environment set in motion a very different kind of adventure.  
  
Jesse scans Hanzo’s face while the other man takes a drink and wonders, maybe for the fortieth time since breakfast, what he might be thinking. Whether or not he feels at all like the way Jesse feels.

Never one to pass up an opportunity to let the liquor talk, Jesse leans closer until he’s flush with Hanzo’s arm. “Hey.”

Hanzo looks at him. The air of gentle amusement tells Jesse that he’s ready to receive Jesse McCree’s particular brand of drunken nonsense. “Yes?”  
  
“I really like you, Shimada Hanzo.”

Half of Hanzo’s mouth jerks upwards in a gentle snort. He grins that preening grin, the one he always makes when Jesse lays gifts at his feet, deserving and flattered and just a little bit snobby. “Do you.”

“Sure as shit do.” Jesse grins back. “You’re a dime.”  
  
“Such a low denomination.”

“That means you’re a _ ten. _ As in ten outta ten. A real peach.”  
  
Hanzo looks away now, displaying an expected level of embarrassment. “Jesse.”  
  
“I’m just saying. I don’t know how I ever got so lucky.”

“You are always lucky.” Hanzo tugs the serape, which has up to this point been solely occupying Jesse’s lap, and half-covers his own. “As you are quick to tell anyone who will listen.”

“Yeah, but I ain’t ever got a hand so fine as you.” Jesse tongues his canine tooth. Looks Hanzo up and down like he’s about to cause trouble. “Even if you are a rich-bitch.”

Hanzo laughs, reaches underneath the serape to firmly, almost warningly, clutch Jesse’s thigh. As much of it he can get his hand around anyway. “I also find your company agreeable. Even if you are a sloppy bastard.”

The opportunity comes fast and easy, like most opportunities do in Jesse's life. And just like those, he slides into the seat without a hitch.

“Aw, honey.” He grins even wider, angles his mouth predator-close to Hanzo's neck, but not too close that he can't see his eyes. “You like me sloppy.”

That grip tightens. Jesse sees the amused glint in Hanzo’s gaze shift dark, pupils blowing wide. Despite the obvious change, he only continues to stare. Becomes even more still. Still so self-contained.

It isn’t the first time Jesse’s tried Hanzo like this in public. He knows that if he leans in close, whispers dirty, and keeps him all riled up for awhile, there's a chance Hanzo might pay him back when they’re both behind closed doors. Gentleman on the street, dragon in the sheets, as Jesse has said before—out loud, to Hanzo’s great misery.

“That’s right,” he drawls closer to Hanzo’s ear, leans until he can smell his own whiskey-breath. “Know you like me sloppy. All loud and dirty, just for you.” His voice turns breathy as he traces the skin just next to Hanzo’s shirt cuff. “Know you like makin’ a mess outta me.”

Jesse watches Hanzo turn and stare arrows at the back of the seat before him. He sees Hanzo carefully lift the whiskey glass to his lips. He sees the tell-tale redness spreading up from that powerful throat and feels the overwhelming urge to lick up the flexing tendon. Jesse smirks and licks his own teeth, thinks of something even dirtier, something that'll bring back that mixture of surprise and arousal. The transparent complaints about public indecency. How tense and ornery he’ll get until they’re finally alone.

It’s a little unfair. Maybe even a little mean. But he’s heard no complaints thus far, and, again—Hanzo seems to like Jesse for who he is. Trouble-making is a huge part of that package.

But just when Jesse’s about to lean in again, he feels the hand on his thigh go directly over his crotch and grip him through his jeans. Grip, and rub, and twist.

Jesse’s brain instantly goes into a tailspin. 

_“Han—”_

“You were right,” Hanzo says, perfectly calm. Looking down through his lashes at the amber whiskey winking in the sun. “The Plymouth Reserve has a much sweeter aftertaste.”

Jesse’s thighs involuntarily spread to accommodate Hanzo’s hand. He also gathers up the serape on top as camouflage. Once again, he scans for any undue attention, but everyone in eye-line seems to be in their own little world, even the business-dick who was frowning at them earlier.

“Easy now.” Jesse keeps his eyes forward, tries to council his cock into taking at least a dignified amount of time to get rock hard. “There’s—“  
  
“No one is looking,” Hanzo whispers back, now using that low, gravelly tone he _ must _ know Jesse loves. “Unless, perhaps, you wish that they were.”  
  
_“Hanzo.”_  
  
“You would like to be watched.” Hanzo squeezes his hand around Jesse, strokes through his jeans. Somehow finds the head even through the denim and makes rough circles with his thumb. “You would love to let me debase you in front of all of these people. Sucking my cock while I order another drink.”  
  
Hanzo _has_ to feel the powerful lurch that goes straight through Jesse’s cock. Jesse opens his mouth, but his throat’s gone too dry, and he’s speechless besides.

“Is that what you would like?” Another squeeze, this one like a test; if Hanzo wants to find out just how much Jesse is enjoying this, he’s got his answer for sure. “Would you like to suck my cock where everyone can see?”  
  
_“Fuck._”  
  
“Jesse. I can feel you getting wet for me already.”  
  
“Christ_,_ _Jesus_. M’fuckin’...” Jesse grits his jaw, squirms in his seat. Tries to leave the impression to any possible onlookers that he’s only trying to get comfortable. Injects a little authority into his voice—as if that’ll do any good. “You’re _ killing _ me, boy.”  
  
“I would rather fuck you. Right now.”  
  
Now Jesse looks at Hanzo like he may very well be crazy. “What?”  
  
“You heard me.”  
  
“Hanzo.” Jesse can’t help the anticipatory grin that stretches across his coyote mug. “Are you asking me to join the mile high club?”  
  
“There is a club?”  
  
“You—” Jesse almost laughs, but the hand around his now-hard cock squeezes again and steals his breath. “Us? Two wanted men? While we’re both three sheets to the wind?”  
  
“Ha. I recognize that idiom.”  
  
“Hanzo, seriously—”

_ “Tch_. You exaggerate. We are tipsy at best. And no one knows who we are.” Hanzo leans so close that Jesse can feel the heat of him through his fine suit. “I want you, Jesse.”  
  
Jesse sucks in air and slowly lets it out through his nostrils. As if that’ll help. As if that’ll do anything to stop the wet spot on his jeans from growing.

“Heading to a perfectly good hotel in Charleston.”  
  
“I do not want to wait.”  
  
“Gonna be tight quarters.”

“Oh, I am aware.” Then Hanzo leans in and licks Jesse’s ear lobe while stroking with his entire palm and Jesse almost whines. “I have supplies in my bag.” Then Hanzo lowers his voice even more to add, “And I know you will open well for me after this morning.”  
  
Jesse flashes back to his own white-knuckle grip on the headboard, Hanzo’s thick fingers milking him good while their eggs got cold on the room service cart. “God _ damn _ it.”

When he finally looks at Hanzo, he sucks in a breath. There've been times he’s seen the man’s face in a fight—hell, the first time they’d met, he’d been on the receiving end—but he didn’t expect it now. That natural frown pointed like an arrow. The ease of a man accustomed to slipping into deep focus at any moment. Those cupid-bow lips parted, curled in one corner, struck halfway between excitement and bloodlust. Pupils darting fitfully between Jesse’s eyes and mouth, as if watching to see which will make a move first. 

It’s a flattering thing, being stuck at the business end of that sharpened blade. But the switch from the self-contained archer he’s worked with for almost a year and the ravenous hunter now pressing his hand into Jesse’s lap where anyone could see… a man’s head can only spin so far. The altitude was bad enough.

He can’t help but wonder how far he’ll let this twister bring him up before it spits him back out.

But, like most wild places, he’s more keen to see what he can find than going when the getting’s good. Doubly so when his dick is involved.

Over the chorus of much wiser voices shouting in the too-far back of his mind, Jesse mutters, “You better go first then, sweetheart. Need to calm down a bit before I knock this thing against someone’s tray table.”

Hanzo snickers the way he always does at Jesse’s crude jokes. Gives his cock one final, possessive squeeze and then makes a show of walking past him with his crotch (definitely a little tented) in Jesse’s face as he makes his way into the aisle.

The light changes outside; a cloud parts and a sunbeam rotates over Hanzo’s forgotten half whiskey. Jesse downs it, along with his own, and hopes it’ll at least keep himself from firing off before the main event. God save him, but he hasn’t been this easily aroused since he was a teenager. Another unexpected thing about Hanzo—Jesse’s never met someone who could work him up so fast.  
  
Was all that politesse before just a long con?

He gives it five minutes. People need time to stop being nosy, but Hanzo will get impatient with anything more. When he finally rises and starts moseying towards the end of the plane, he tries to seem as casual as possible. As casual as a man about to fuck his boyfriend in an airline bathroom can be.

Two-thirds of the way there, he realizes he’s brought his hat. Oh, well. It’s about to become the last thing people will notice.

Jesse puts it on and tips it in greeting when he realizes there’s a stewardess near the bathroom door. She looks up from sorting lunches onto the dining cart, smiles, offers a polite Hello and suddenly Jesse feels incredibly opposed to this whole idea. At least, he’s not going to knock and then bust into the obviously occupied stall with her standing right there, smiling that smile. 

“‘Scuse me, miss,” he drawls, affecting his best crooked grin. “The older gentleman in seat 3C was looking a little green. I think he doesn’t wanna be a bother, but I’d feel better knowing he was checked up on at least. Would you mind paying him a visit?” 

Of course, she thanks him for his concern and hurries off down the aisle. And of course, Hanzo slides the lock to UNOCCUPIED as soon as Jesse knocks his special little knock. And of course, Hanzo pins him against the door as soon as he’s inside, barely allowing time for Jesse to lock the door.

“Ever the charmer,” Hanzo mutters, smiling as he unbuttons Jesse’s shirt.  
  
The bathroom is just as outdated as the rest of the plane. The sink, counter and walls are all made out of a durable plastic that maybe, once upon a time, was just off-white. Little warning signs everywhere. A single milky tungsten light flickering overhead. Jesse would say that the whole place was too gross for what they’re about to do, but he’s definitely had sex in worse locales. Besides—if the low supply of tissues and the strong smell of hand-sanitizer is any indication, Hanzo spent his waiting time cleaning all the pertinent surface areas. 

Jesse huffs out a laugh, looks down as Hanzo spreads his greedy hands all over Jesse’s now-exposed torso. “Didn’t want her watchin’ while I boldly went to commit air crimes.”

“You are a contradiction.” Hanzo pushes his hands up Jesse’s tits and gives them a hard squeeze, making Jesse’s hips pump a little. “You will politely redirect a stewardess but you will still fuck in the bathroom.”

“Well.” Jesse spreads his legs so that Hanzo can stand even closer. “No need to make it even more awkward for her than it’s about to be.”  
  
“A gentleman.” Hanzo drags his teeth across Jesse’s chest, his mouth so conveniently located to just the top of Jesse’s large pectorals. 

“You like it.” Jesse arches into it, sheds his shirt entirely and drapes it over the steel handicapped bar. “You like how _ nice _ I can be.”

“I do.” Hanzo bends just enough to mouth over Jesse’s nipple. “I like how nicely you beg as well.”  
  
Jesse hisses, lurches his hips again. Every shift of his boots on the floor sounds echoed, but the insistent heat of Hanzo’s mouth and the demand of his calloused fingers quickly dominate all practical thought.

“You started this, and you’re_ still _ gonna make me beg?”  
  
“Jesse,” Hanzo chuckles, cocky and fond, feeling Jesse’s love-handles like he can’t get enough. “When have I ever had to _ make _ you beg?”  
  
Now that gets under his skin in a way both delightful and infuriating. Jesse pulls away from Hanzo’s teeth enough to put a hand on the archer’s throat and lean down to whisper against his mouth. “You do like testing me, boy.”  
  
And Hanzo parts his lips, half-smirks. Indulges in the spirit of Jesse’s words, like he always does. Like they both do. If Hanzo wanted Jesse to cross his wrists above his head and pretend like he couldn’t crush fortified steel with his cybernetic hand, Jesse would stick ‘em up. If Jesse wanted Hanzo to bend over and pretend he couldn’t think of sixteen different ways to immobilize Jesse with just his feet, Hanzo would play that role. 

But Hanzo can be stubborn, once he’s gotten an idea into his head. And—as Jesse is finding out more and more—for someone who cares so deeply about honor, he can be downright underhanded. But Jesse knows he should expect it from a former mob boss. 

“If we are switching now,” Hanzo drawls, somehow, even with Jesse’s big hand pressing in on his esophagus, “I will need more time to prepare. But if you think your cock can last longer than your tongue,” Hanzo nudges his hips into Jesse’s crotch, making the gunslinger growl, “You may lick me open.”

“Mean fuckin’ spoiled fuckin’—” Jesse kisses Hanzo in a vicious facsimile of that very act, probing him open with his tongue, gasping through his nose and pawing at his back like he can’t get close enough. They both know goddamn well the state Jesse is in, the sharp eagerness that begs a quick release.

Although Hanzo probably can’t tell just how different this time is for Jesse. The twinge of anxiety that makes the rest of it that much more overwhelming. Like he might fall backwards at any moment. Like he might step out onto what seems solid and never stop falling.

Then Hanzo lifts up Jesse’s thigh and ruts their cocks together like an animal and this, at least, feels like business-as-usual. He’s still so _ ravenous _ when he goes for Jesse; like he’s been holding it in for a long time; like a feeding wolf, paranoid that some other predator might come along to challenge what is his.  
  
Normally, Jesse would ease him down, remind him that they have all the time in the world. Now, Jesse links that leg around Hanzo’s hip and matches his thrusts until they both move like seasoned dancers. He kisses above Hanzo’s ear, grunts, “Fuck me, then.”  
  
Hanzo gets his hands between them just enough to undo Jesse’s belt, snapping it open so fast that the buckle hits Jesse’s hip.

“Ow.” Jesse tries to spread his legs further, but he’s run out of room. “Easy, darlin’.”  
  
Hanzo only slows down enough not to cut Jesse with his own zipper, shamelessly staring as Jesse’s denim drops to his knees. Then he cups Jesse through the worn plaid of his boxers, thumbs the wet spot, presses it back into Jesse’s leaking cockhead until the bigger man has to bite back a groan. Jesse’s hands interrupt their smooth glide down Hanzo’s arms to seize his shoulders.

Then Jesse hears Hanzo’s amused whisper: “glad to see the whiskey went to only your head.”

Jesse snorts. “You gonna compliment it, or you gonna—_fuck_.” 

In one graceful motion, Hanzo drops to his knees, pulls Jesse through the front button of his boxers, and spreads the flat of his tongue across that leaking head. A deep moan rolls from both of their throats at the same time, both muffled: Jesse by his own hand over his mouth, Hanzo by Jesse’s swollen hardness. Jesse’s knees bend and his hips pulse under Hanzo’s commanding grip. Every curve and nod of Hanzo’s mouth is pointed, aggressive, thirsty—like he could squeeze the come from Jesse out of sheer focused effort if he wanted to.

Jesse drops his chin and rests his hand on the top of Hanzo’s head, watches that perfect mouth work him good; artful and savage like he is with everything else. “Baby.” Jesse tugs Hanzo’s hair loose and is rewarded by a faster bob of Hanzo’s head. “_Fuck_. Just like that.”  
  
Then he drops both hands to hold under Hanzo’s jaw. He makes no attempt to control him—just lets his fingertips drift to Hanzo’s cheeks when his cock presses against the inside there, to Hanzo’s throat when he swallows his building saliva. To Hanzo’s lips when they open so that tongue can flick meanly against Jesse’s exposed head.

Jesse bites his bottom lip and lets it slide out red. He thumbs the edge of Hanzo’s stretched mouth, still astounded at how easily Hanzo takes him, even though the man’s jaw looks like it’s hyper-extended. "Easy now,” Jesse coos. Then he guides, and Hanzo goes. A little tug is all it takes to get Hanzo to submit. Jesse pushes out his hips as he pulls Hanzo forward and again, he feels the back of his throat. _“Easy.”_ Hanzo chokes around him, once, and then Jesse sets a more leisurely pace, slow and wet and grandiose. As if he’s doing it for an audience. "There's my good boy."

In a way, he is; Jesse loves watching Hanzo like this. Still fierce, still determined, still self-possessed. But also obedient—_so _ obedient. Like his new goal is to prove to Jesse that he can take whatever the cowboy thinks to give out. Like there’s no limit to how much of Jesse he’ll try to swallow, even when Jesse hooks a thumb over his bottom teeth and fucks into his throat fast, brutal. Panting as he holds Hanzo’s head still and uses his mouth as a cock-sleeve.  
  
Hanzo coughs around him and Jesse pulls back out. _“Fuck.”_ He lets Hanzo crowd against his pelvis, cough into his skin. Soothes the back of his head and his hair with long, loving strokes. “Fuck, baby.” He swipes the drool from Hanzo’s chin as he tries to get a handle on his own burning urge to come. “You keep spoilin' me.”

Then Hanzo looks up from under dark, thick strands of hair, like black scars across his face. The meager AC lends a peaceful sway to that hair and Jesse feels his throat leap even further up his throat. 

“C’mere.”

With hardly any choice but further obedience, given the metal hand at the back of his neck, Hanzo rises to catch Jesse’s mouth. Moaning, licking, squeezing—Jesse tastes himself and the whiskey and has to push his orgasm down all over again. Doesn’t help that Hanzo has started his demanding thrusting again, smearing his nice trousers with Jesse’s soaking wet cock.

“I want you to ride me,” Hanzo breathes, just as guttural and low as Jesse’s voice.

It takes a few seconds for one of them to remember who actually brought the lube. Eventually Hanzo produces it from his pocket and hands it to Jesse while he undresses. Meaning, he loosens three shirt buttons and undoes his belt. Jesse almost laughs to see Hanzo lower the toilet lid, recline like a king, and unearth his cock with the bare minimum of exertion. Spread knees and nice shoes. So debauched and regal at the same time—only Hanzo Shimada.  
  
Going with the mood, Jesse strips entirely. His belt makes a loud _ clang _ as it hits the floor, no longer wondering about anything beyond this tiny space. Then he goes about the humiliating business of yanking them off while keeping his boots on.  
  
Hanzo laughs.  
  
“Hey! Hush now.”  
  
“You cannot expect me to—why are keeping your boots on?”  
  
“I don’t know about you, but the mere thought of putting bare feet on this floor is already makin’ me soft.”  
  
Hanzo chuckles again, "Liar," and holds out his hand, helping Jesse steady himself enough to yank off the last leg of his jeans in the tiny space. He’s probably torn his boxers in the process, but, whatever—it’s all worth it to see that mixture of beaming affection and blinding lust on Hanzo’s face when Jesse stands in front of him wearing only his hat and boots.  
  
“Beautiful,” Hanzo mutters, kissing Jesse on the belly while his hands stroke up and down Jesse’s thighs.  
  
Jesse grins back tenfold while he uncaps the lube. “You ain’t gotta butter me up, Han.”  
  
“I have no butter,” Hanzo mutters, making Jesse laugh. “You are exquisite, Jesse McCree. I will say so when I please.”  
  
Just like with Hanzo’s random gifts or unexpected graces, Jesse doesn’t know how to receive his intense adoration. But he can’t say he doesn’t love it. With zero self-consciousness, Jesse turns towards the sink, lifts his knee up onto the counter, and reaches back with slicked fingers to stretch himself open.

Hanzo hisses _loud_. He leans forward, tugs Jesse so he has the best access possible, tries so hard to get a good view that it makes Jesse blush. He murmurs in Japanese, runs calloused hands up Jesse’s thighs, over his ass, his arm. He wasn’t exaggerating when he said that Hanzo likes him sloppy; the archer goes still and eager when Jesse stretches himself open, shameless and eager. He loves the base physical pleasure of just watching those long metal fingers pierce Jesse’s hole again and again, push in deep, thighs straining and hips begging to buck. All of their prior trysts have proven as much.  
  
Then Jesse hits that spongy node and lets out a low whine and Hanzo lets out a growl. Gradual, so gradual—the rush is still very much present, but that hand can crinkle steel and Jesse’s poor hole is already stretched from their morning session. It doesn’t take much to open himself up again, but Jesse goes on as long as he can. Wants to hear Hanzo get cranky and impatient and aggressive.  
  
And Hanzo, for his part, doesn’t seem offended. He gets real close. Touches Jesse’s thighs like he’s kneading dough, like he wants to work out kinks that aren’t there. Complements the dark skin and coarse hair and thick ass, praises Jesse enough to make him blush. He can’t remember ever hearing so many kind words coming out of Hanzo’s mouth at one time, even if half of them are in Japanese.

For a moment, Jesse lets himself believe that maybe Hanzo is just as worked up as he is.

Then Hanzo licks around where Jesse’s fingers push in and out and, God—Jesse _ gasps_. He groans low and hard and long. When Hanzo’s tongue reaches between Jesse’s fingers and tries to lick inside, Jesse feels for the second time today that his attempt to goad Hanzo has ended in his own total consternation.

“Alright, c’mon,” Jesse slips his leg down, faces Hanzo with what he knows is a red, sweaty face. Already panting like a horse. Words barely intelligible through the thick swamp of his accent. Cock stinging with yet another suppressed orgasm. “I need you.”  
  
“Come here.” 

With more stilted shuffling, Hanzo winds up back on the closed toilet with Jesse standing before him. Eager hands follow Jesse’s hips as the gunslinger turns around, finds Hanzo’s cock with his gun hand, and guides the head to his hole. He feels Hanzo lean back and knows without a shadow of a doubt that Hanzo wants to watch himself pierce Jesse—so Jesse leans forward to give him a better view. Hanzo’s hands move from Jesse’s hips to his ass, helping to spread him out.  
  
When Jesse feels Hanzo’s head slip inside, he groans again, and sinks in one smooth drop that makes Hanzo clutch his hips like he might break them. Immediately, Jesse leans back to kiss him, and Hanzo answers with his tongue, one hand on Jesse's neck with the other on his belly. Pressed tighter than tight. Closer than close.

But both are panting too hard to kiss for long. Jesse can feel himself opening up for Hanzo without even trying and the thought of that, of his body’s own deep trust for the man that came into his life as bizarrely and joyously as an uncharted desert oasis, makes Jesse whine from much more than stimulation.  
  
Hanzo whispers, too low and slurred and in a language Jesse doesn't understand, but he gets the gist and wants more. Wants to hear it as badly as he wants to feel Hanzo’s thrusts.  
  
Jesse leans forward until his hands press flat against the door and starts to rock. Hanzo rocks with him, and for a moment, Jesse just barely slides against him, Hanzo’s cock nudging in and out less than half way. Jesse whines at the stretch, not just in his hole but Hanzo’s strong hands pulling his cheeks apart, straining him to capacity. He knows Hanzo is staring and the sheer mental image has Jesse dripping to the floor.  
  
But it’s not enough, and Jesse’s lust is knife-sharp at this point. So he settles back straight onto Hanzo’s cock, sticks his heels into the ground and bounces. Coarse swearing mangles through Hanzo’s dry throat as Jesse lifts himself up and down, his own heavy cock slapping against his belly, gripping Hanzo’s thighs for leverage. He lets gravity push Hanzo’s cock as deep as possible and bites his own tongue to stop the noises that want to punch out of him with every push of that hard cock against his insides.  
  
Hanzo growls something demanding in Japanese, then seems to repeat in English, "Ride me, Jesse. Harder."  
  
Jesse knows what he wants. He gets his hands on Hanzo’s knees, leans forward and isolates his hips to nod just his ass up and down, slapping Hanzo’s pelvis, looking over his shoulder with hooded eyes as he grunts his way through. He works Hanzo’s cock with every curve and bow of his hips, guiding his hole in waves. Hanzo is groping his ass, clutching his hips, leaving deep imprints that will surely be made and remade multiple times over the next coming weeks.

Jesse’s back bows as he slides further and further off of Hanzo’s cock, until he feels the last stretched lip of his hole almost slip off the head. Then he curls his belly inward and swallows him up again.  
  
“_Fuck _me,” Jesse growls through his teeth, now making circles with Hanzo fully inside. “Fuck,_ yes_."  
  
Hanzo lets out a low, hoarse drone, slides a slow hand up Jesse's shining back; a stark contrast to the fast-paced wildfire burning through Jesse's every last sense. He coos, mutters in encouraging, goading tones, like he's saying something obscene and affectionate and utterly shameless. It makes Jesse dizzy, even dizzier than before. The lack of fresh oxygen, the dizziness he’s had since taking off—all of it is coalescing with his lust in a way he could never describe. He feels obliterated, and like all of his nerves are singing at once. It slows him down some, but he still makes an effort.

Just his luck: Hanzo comes through. With two arms hooked under Jesse’s knees, he half-lifts him up. Jesse swallows a noise of surprise and it gargles into a wet moan. Hanzo gave himself just enough room to thrust right into the spot Jesse wants him most.  
  
There’s no way the position isn’t killing Hanzo’s back. There’s no way Hanzo’s stomach isn’t straining to not only fuck up into Jesse, but to do it as hard as he is. Jesse thanks it for him with a quiet, desperate wail that barely escapes his mouth, unable to get control of his breathing. Spikes of pleasure shoot out with every pointed thrust and it isn’t long before Jesse starts to buck uncontrollably, babbling, floating. Reaching for his cock with his still-slicked hand.  
  
“Not yet,” Hanzo hisses.  
  
Jesse swears that Hanzo can’t be doing this to him, but he stops just before he reaches his peak, takes his hand off himself completely, which is good, because there’s no way he wouldn’t go off everywhere when Hanzo groans erratic and comes inside him. Those powerful thrusts go hard, fast, fill him up deep. Still thrusting, until something drips down the inner cleft of Jesse’s ass, until he starts to see those spots multiply.  
  
“Please. _ Hanzo_.”  
  
Then Hanzo puts the cowboy on his feet and Jesse wobbles, bow-legged, wild and delirious. He relies on Hanzo to spin him around, almost loses his footing. Then he briefly goes blind when Hanzo takes him in his mouth again and pushes three fingers back up into his dripping hole, jabs his insides. Swallows around Jesse until they both have nothing left to give. Swallows until those black eyes glaze.  
  
Jesse leans back against the door, lungs like bellows. The world goes milky; still floating. His Adam’s apple tries to leave his throat.  
  
Then Hanzo hums from somewhere, throat hoarse and soft all at once. “Come here.”  
  
He captures Jesse’s mouth and puts soft hands in his hair; Jesse’s hat finally falls off his head. They hum and kiss and pet each other’s stubble and look at one another like they can’t quite believe it, like the one just might be falling for the other.

Hanzo laughs breathlessly, quietly. Jesse smiles so hard that his ears start to ache.  
  
Hanzo puts his face onto Jesse’s chest and Jesse puts his chin over Hanzo’s head. With a little tilt, he can see them both in the mirror. He can see his own face. Wrecked, worn out. But maybe a little younger, too.  
  
Then Hanzo eases back, takes a few tissues and hands them to Jesse. “Do you think anyone heard us?”  
  
“Nah, we were real quiet.”  
  
Hanzo licks his lips and then silently cleans himself. Jesse wipes himself off too, then tosses the tissues in the trash. After they are both buckled up and dressed, they look at each other with similar expressions of increasing guilt.

They were most definitely _ not _ quiet.  
  
“Perhaps we should have taken more care to—”  
  
“It’s alright,” Jesse says, finally catching his breath. “I got an idea.”

✈ ✈ ✈

“It’s okay, darlin’,” Jesse backs his way out of the bathroom, waving his hand as if soothing a dangerous animal. “You’ll be alright. Just try to get it all out.”  
  
Hanzo’s sickly groans are loud, but not the finest acting Jesse has ever seen. “Fuck. Oh, God. Oh.”  
  
Jesse slips out fast and closes the door behind him. He hears it slide back into OCCUPIED the second his eyes meet those of the same stewardess from before. She is decidedly less smiley this time around, and has two other stewards with her, all wearing different shades of disgust and anger.  
  
“Sorry about bogartin' the bathroom like that, ma’am,” Jesse removes his hat again. “My partner’s real sick. Tell you what, he’s so sick, he got _ me _ puking my guts out just trying to sooth him. Must be he saw that other fella and got sympathy pains. He’s a caring soul like that.” He puts up his hands (which hopefully smell soapy enough to combat the other smells) in a prayer position and attempts another, even more crooked grin. “Do me a favor. Please don’t bother him? I know he’s inconveniencing the other passengers, but he’s feeling so sick just now. And he feels real bad about it, too.”  
  
The three stewards stare at Jesse with maybe a tenth less malice than they did when he exited. Behind Jesse, the wet cough of someone who’d recently been deep-throating comes from behind the door. Jesse resolves to educate Hanzo later on the need to keep the con going until the job is fully done.  
  
In the end, none of them care enough to do more than strongly recommend to Jesse that he return to his seat. Which he does so—after snagging two bags of pretzels from the cart.

  
  
✈ ✈ ✈

“You are certain there will be no reprimand?”  
  
“O’course. Hey, you want another drink before we land?”  
  
“I do not want to see any more plane employees until our next flight. Possibly not ever again.”  
  
Jesse leans against the far padded side of his seat, having stolen the window spot. A dopey, satisfied grin on his face. “Might have to wait awhile for our next air adventure, sweetness. Think that second flight attendant told our business friend over there about us. Think he might be an air marshall. Or he recognizes one of us. Or both.”  
  
Hanzo turns his head to see what Jesse sees and, sure enough, the business-dick from before quickly glances away, having been looking right at them just a second before.  
  
_“Kuso.”_

“S’alright.” Jesse yawns and tugs his serape higher up his lap. “We got about another hour left. He won’t be hard to deal with. Not after I’ve had a good nap.”  
  
There’s a pause, and then Hanzo softly chuckles. Then he nudges up the armrest between them. “Lift.”  
  
Jesse lifts up his gun arm and Hanzo slips under it to nestle against the crook of Jesse’s neck. Jesse slings his arm around Hanzo’s waist, squeezes him for a moment, then lets his whole body go slack. The lightheadedness evaporates, all altitude-buzz faded into a deep, comfortable high. The best kind of soreness. Not quite back down to earth, but, shit—maybe that's exactly what he signed up for.  
  
“You continue to surprise me,” Hanzo whispers close to his neck.  
  
“Darlin’,” Jesse sighs, tugging his hat low over his closed eyes, “You got no idea."

**Author's Note:**

> [Screen fades to black, sound of gunfire and Japanese shouting. Rambunctious Western theme song with heavy shamisen chords plays.]


End file.
